The Boy Who Lived
by tlyxor1
Summary: Voldemort has returned from the brink, and Harry Potter's resolve to protect his twin is tested in new and unfamiliar ways. There are few things he wouldn't do to protect the ones he loves. OOC. Post GOF, WBWL, Betrothal AU. Ravenclaw!HP. JP/LE, eventual HP/DG. No Potter Bashing.
1. Chapter 1

**The Boy Who Lived**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** Voldemort has returned from the brink, and Harry Potter's resolve to protect his twin brother is put to the test in new, unfamiliar ways. There are few things he wouldn't do for Liam, but between a Ministry of Magic determined to bury the truth, the Daily Prophet's accompanying smear campaign, and the constant threat of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, Harry isn't sure even his efforts will be enough. OOC. Post GOF, WBWL OOTP AU, of a sort. Ravenclaw!HP. JP/LE. No Potter Bashing.

**Rating:** T for language, violence, and character death.

**Tags:** Ancient and Noble Houses, Betrothal Contract, Family Magic, Ravenclaw Harry Potter, Critical (Thinker) Harry, Powerful Harry, Politics, Ethics, Social Issues, Not Expanded Universe (Pottermore, Fantastic Beasts, Cursed Child, etc) Compliant, and plenty more I haven't thought to list.

**Author:** tlyxor1.

**Author's Note:** So many tropes, my friends, right from the get go. I shall try to avoid indiscriminate, nonsensical bashing of characters, but I make no promises. If you don't like it, then you know the way out. Otherwise, happy reading.

**The Boy Who Lived**

**Chapter One:**

Liam isn't sleeping well. His nights are fraught with memories of the Triwizard Tournament - in particular, the harrowing end to the entire debacle - and his screams ensure the rest of the family knows it.

There isn't much they can do about it, however. Harry's tried - sharing a bed, staying up with Liam for hours, hugging it out when he cries, tussling it out when the anger gets the best of him - and their parents have, too. Everything attempted is only a temporary fix, though, potions are not an option, and ultimately, it's a trauma Liam has to work through in his own time, in his own way, and the family can do naught but be there for him as he does so.

In the interim, they try not to coddle him. Harry drags him out for their usual morning run, pesters him about his holiday homework, plays one-on-one quidditch when they both feel like it. They bicker over their chores, about 'borrowed' clothes and the last piece of bacon. They commiserate over their summer lessons, about the rigorous, no-nonsense training sessions with the Marauders and Lily, about their inability to travel and socialise as freely as they have in the past. They fall into a routine in those early days of summer - disrupted only by their occasional spats - and it's oddly jarring when the routine is changed.

"I don't get it," Harry frowns over his breakfast, "Why is she coming here? Doesn't she have her own home to go to?"

"Don't be a git," Liam chides him, "Hermione's my best friend."

"I'm aware of that," Harry deadpans. "But she has her own family, doesn't she? The dentists?"

Harry doesn't know Hermione Granger well. She's been fairly hostile towards him since the early days of their first year, and as a result, Harry hasn't felt particularly inclined towards getting to know her. Not even her - seeming unbreakable - friendship with Liam can change that. As such, everything Harry knows about her is secondhand, but at least in this instance, it's accurate.

"The Death Eaters and Voldemort pose a significant threat to Hermione's wellbeing, and at her parents' home, she's defenceless," Sirius Black explains, "Dumbledore and her parents determined that it would be best to move her to a safer location."

"What about her parents?" Harry wonders, "Aren't they at risk, too?"

"They've been provided with portkeys," Sirius replies, "And they own a flat they'll be living in until everything with Voldemort is sorted. They should be all right."

Although Harry has never considered himself a particularly _nice_ person, there's something oddly disconcerting about Sirius' nonchalance regarding the matter. Both of Harry's parents are frowning, their eyes on their meals, and there's a thoughtful furrow between Remus' eyebrows. It seems they're not satisfied with the measures taken to protect Dr and Dr Granger either, but they don't mention it now.

"Regarding Hermione, the Burrow was briefly discussed," Lily explains instead. She spears a slice of apple with her fork, and hovers it over her yoghurt, "But as you know, Arthur and Molly already have their hands full. Your father and I volunteered our home. We thought Hermione's company might do you boys some good."

"And you didn't want to ask us, first?" Harry grouses.

"We didn't think it would be an issue," James answers.

"But she hates me," Harry protests, "She spent all of last year glaring at me as if I killed that demon cat of hers!"

Liam rolls his eyes, exasperated. It's not the first time Harry's complained about the girl. "She doesn't _hate_ you; she's threatened by you. There's a big difference."

"Threatened?" James frowns. He's not the only one - Sirius, Remus, and Lily do, too - and Harry scoffs, unimpressed and offended by their concern, "Did you do something, Harry?"

"As if," Harry scowls, "Give me some credit."

"Hermione likes to be the smartest person in the room," Liam explains, "But Harry's just as clever as her, so it doesn't always work out that way."

The adults are tickled by that revelation. They glance between themselves, smiling, chuckling, generally entertained by the notion, and Harry's mood sours further.

"I remember another muggle-born just like that," James says. He's grinning at Lily, hearts in his eyes, and Harry and Liam both sigh, long-suffering.

"You and I remember that muggle-born very differently, James Potter," Lily counters, but she's smiling too - laughing a little bit, even - and she doesn't mind the stroll down memory lane at all.

"I'm sure she'll get over it," Remus assures Harry, "Maybe her stay will allow you to find some common ground. Academia isn't everything."

"That'll be the day," Harry mutters. He proceeds to eat in a gloomy, sullen silence, not remotely enthused by the prospect, and the adults glance between themselves once more, concerned and guilty.

"We're sorry, Harry," Lily says, "We weren't aware you two didn't get along. I'm sure she can stay at the Burrow instead."

"It's fine," Harry answers. He can't deny that Hermione's presence would probably do Liam some good, and Harry can't take that away from his brother. Not when Liam still looks so exhausted. "I'll live."

"We don't want you to be uncomfortable in your own home, Harry," James persists, "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Harry dully intones.

James nods uncertainly. "In that case, she arrives this evening."

Harry nods wordlessly, and finishes his breakfast in silence. The rest of them pick up conversations around him - quidditch, politics, work - and all the while, Harry tries not to brood over their impending house guest.

Harry doesn't dislike Hermione Granger - not really, anyway - but some of her habits irritate him, and he resents the fact that she resents him for no valid reason. As such, he's not remotely enthused by the thought that he's about to lose his summer reprieve from her glares and scowls and everything else, and he has no idea how he'll handle sharing living space with her. Hogwarts is one thing - they're in different houses, mostly different classes, and Liam is their only common interest, but Potter Manor is another matter entirely. It's large enough that he could probably avoid her if he was so inclined, but it's his home, and quite frankly, he's _not_ inclined to do so, and he shouldn't have to be.

"I guess I should go clean my room," Liam frowns thoughtfully. He picks at the healing paste flaking off his chin, and around the table, the adults turn their sudden, sharp-eyed focus on him.

"Not that I'm disagreeing, but is there a reason Hermione will be spending much time in your room, William?" Lily asks. Her gaze is narrowed intently, and Liam stills like a startled deer.

"On that excruciating note," Harry pushes himself away from the table, "I have homework to do."

Without waiting for an acknowledgement from the adults, Harry hastily excuses himself from the kitchen. Liam catches his eye before he disappears around the doorway, his gaze panicked, and Harry tries not to feel bad about leaving him to the wolves. Liam's brought it on himself, anyway, and there are some conversations with their parents Harry would prefer to go his whole life without having to endure. Not even for Liam.

-!- -#-

The library of Potter Manor extends over three storeys. It's comfortably furnished and brightly lit, neatly organised into Non-Fiction and Fiction, and into sub-sections within those two categories. It's a place Harry spends a lot of his time - studying, relaxing, replacing outdated texts with their more recent editions - and it's where he retreats after a shower to wash off the sweat and grime accumulated during the family's early morning training session.

Specifically, he disappears into a discreet alcove within the Ancient Studies section. He's set up something of a temporary base there, spread out his research over a wide, four-seater study table, and the rest of his family is kind enough to pretend they don't know it - or his research - exists.

In this instance, however, Harry doesn't lose himself in his Ancient Runes project. Instead, he stares blankly at the haphazardly organised array of textbooks, journals, scrolls, loose parchments, inkwells, fountain pens and quills, and wonders how long it'll take for Hermione Granger to stick her beak in where it isn't wanted. He's not going to kid himself - the girl is too curious about everything not to do just that - and although inconvenient, perhaps it's time he moved everything to the small study attached to his bedroom.

"Smooth move there, lad," Remus greets him. He seats himself in one of the chairs adjacent to Harry, and carefully avoids examination of the papers spread out in front of him.

Harry huffs a sheepish laugh. "There's a lot of things I'd do for Liam, but sitting through that hell isn't one of them. How'd it go?"

"Well, we now know your brother isn't romantically interested in Miss Granger," Remus says conversationally, "But after Lily's interrogation, I'm sure he'll never want to bring a girl home to meet the family."

. He nods, unsurprised. "About what I expected, then."

Remus smiles, humoured, but he sobers quickly. "Are you really all right with Hermione staying here for the summer?"

"I'm fine," Harry rolls his eyes, a little exasperated by the continued concern, "She'll spend most of her time fussing over Liam, anyway. Hopefully, she'll hardly notice I'm around."

Remus seems hardly appeased, but he doesn't pursue the matter further. Instead, he quizzes Harry about his project, about his summer homework, about he and Liam's summer classes in Business and Estate Management, in Government, Law and Politics, in Deportment, in Rhetoric, in Mediation and Diplomacy. The lessons are being taught by the portraits of Charles and Dorea Potter - with regular input from Fleamont and Euphemia - and their tutors are strict, demanding taskmasters.

Harry hates most of the subjects, Liam hates them all, but they're important to their futures - Harry's, in particular - and thus, the lessons continue.

"And your dad says you'll be shadowing him this summer?"

Harry nods his confirmation. The plan is to spend a few afternoons a week in his father's workshop, observing, learning, being a general gopher as James Potter develops the best professional-quality brooms presently on the market. Also in the cards is to shadow him through sessions of the Wizengamot, at Gringotts,, during visits with tenants, and during meetings with the family's lawyers, and meetings with his father's political allies.

Between those, and the thrice-weekly training sessions in magical combat, Harry's sure that by September, he and his father will be sick to death of each other.

He says as much, and Remus grins. "Consider it cosmic payback for all the grey hairs he gave your grandfather."

"I'll be sure to tell him you said that," Harry answers dryly.

Remus clutches his heart, mock-wounded, but he's grinning. "Just for that, I won't help you ward your little study nook from curious house guests."

"So cruel, Moony."

"You brought it on yourself, lad."

Harry gives a theatrically mournful sigh. "It's the impetuousness of youth, I'm afraid. I haven't yet learned to consider the consequences of my actions."

Remus guffaws at that, and helps himself to a blank piece of parchment, a fountain pen, and an empty patch of tabletop. He outlines the schema for a temporary privacy ward, quizzes Harry on the reason behind each rune, and then challenges him to construct the ward scheme along the edges of his library alcove.

"You're joking!" Harry exclaims, wide-eyed.

"Not at all," Remus counters. He offers Harry a piece of plain chalk, and adds, "I think it's something you are perfectly capable of."

Harry's not sure he agrees, but he's never been one to turn down a challenge. He accepts the chalk, studies the ward scheme, and does his best.

The thing is, the difficulty isn't in drawing the runes themselves. THat's easy - Harry's been doing that for as long as he can remember - but rather, it's in the sizing and placement of each specific rune. In order to ward the entirety of the area intended, the runes need to be evenly spaced, evenly aligned, and evenly sized, and it takes years of practise to manage that on the first attempt.

It takes Harry nine.

"Well done," Remus commends him, offers Harry a piece of ritual chalk, and says mildly, "You know what to do with this, I'm sure."

Harry nods, and goes over the ward scheme with the chalk. In the absence of ward stones, it's what the magic will anchor itself to, and it doesn't take nearly as long to complete as the initial rune placement. Remus inspects his work when he's done, and nods his approval.

"How are you going to power it?"

"I don't want to take any magic away from the wards, so I guess I'll power it myself."

With Voldemort's return to a corporeal body, the wards surrounding Potter Manor - layered for maximum effect - have been strengthened. The wartime wards - modified and improved since 1981 - have been activated, too, and all together, they're a significant drain on the property's ambient magic.

Remus gestures vaguely at the powering rune, "By all means. You don't need to pour everything into it, though. Remember, it's only temporary."

Harry nods his acknowledgement, presses the tip of his wand to the appropriate rune, and funnels his magic into the ward scheme. He stops before he can start feeling any detrimental effects, though there's no telling how long the ward will stay powered for. That, too, is a skill that comes with practice, but for now, he'll just have to observe.

Remus steps out of his alcove, takes a moment to study Harry's work from the outside, and beams. "Congratulations, Harry. You've just successfully completed your first privacy ward."

And despite himself, Harry can't wipe the smile off his face for the life of him.

-!- -#-

**AUthor's Note:** A rewrite of another story I'd written and posted maybe last year, but hopefully better. Please, let me know your thoughts. Should I continue posting? I have a number of chapters pre-written, but I do so enjoy validation…

Thanks for reading, anyway. Hope you've enjoyed. -t.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Boy Who Lived**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

**Chapter Two:**

As planned, Hermione arrives that evening. She's escorted by Professor McGonagall, who is dressed down in a long skirt, a cream-coloured blouse, and a lightweight over-robe. There's something oddly incongruous about the sight of the Deputy Headmistress in casual wear - particularly with her hair in a braid, rather than her usual, austere bun - but Harry tries not to let his consternation show.

"Hermione!" Liam exclaims. He doesn't even seem to notice Professor McGonagall, more intent on reuniting with his best friend. Hermione, in turn, doesn't seem to notice any of the other Potters present, more intent on suffocating Liam by means of an uncomfortable looking hug. Liam returns it tenfold though, and all the while, they're both talking a mile a minute - answering questions, _asking_ them, generally ignoring the rest of the world - and everyone else looks on, bewildered, bemused, beleaguered.

"Hello, Professor," Harry addresses the Deputy Headmistress, "May I show you to the parlour?"

"Thank you Mr Potter, but that won't be necessary," Professor McGonagall replies. She offers him one of her rare, fleeting smiles, and explains, "I won't be staying."

"You won't?" James Potter questions, diverted from his observation of Liam and Hermione's reunion. Lily is, too, gazing expectantly at her former Head of House, and they're both disappointed by Professor McGonagall's revelation.

"Quite," McGonagall confirms, "I've a few more errands to run tonight, and they are unfortunately time-sensitive."

"That's a shame," Lily says, "We were looking forward to catching up with you properly. It's been too long."

"That it has," Professor McGonagall agrees, "Perhaps we can organise something for later in the summer?"

"We'll hold you to that, Minerva," James answers lightly.

Professor McGonagall nods her acknowledgement. "I'll expect your owl, then."

The Deputy Headmistress doesn't linger. She reminds Hermione to behave herself, bids farewell to everyone, and then departs via the floo to locations unknown.

"Well, Hermione, welcome to Potter Manor," Lily addresses Liam's friend.

"Thank you for having me," Hermione answers. "I'm sorry to impose."

"It's not an imposition at all, honey," Lily answers. She bats away the very notion with a flippant wave of her hand, "Now, we've set you up in the room next to Liam's. I'm sure my boys will show you the way?"

Their mother looks expectantly between them, but as Liam nods his confirmation, Harry shakes his head. He doesn't feel particularly bad about it - Hermione Granger is not his friend, after all - but his mother's resulting disapproval grates.

"I actually have to go," he reminds her, "I've got a lesson with Sifu Qiang in half an hour."

"Ah, I forgot," Lily acknowledges, chagrined, "I'm sorry, Harry. Will you be home for dinner?"

"No," harry denies, "But you don't need to worry about that. I've already asked Dancer to set aside some leftovers for me."

"How are you getting there?" James queries.

"I was going to walk from the cottage."

Neither of them seem pleased by the prospect. Sifu Qiang's gym is only a 10 minute walk from Holly Cottage, in Edinburgh, and Harry's been making the walk - accompanied only by Liam - since he was 11. He's walked it alone, too - when Liam's missed a class for whatever reason - but Voldemort's return has changed things immensely.

Evidently, a babysitter outside of the property line of Potter Manor is just another in a long line of them.

"I might accompany you, if you don't mind," James determines. It's not a request.

Harry acquiesces with a roll of his eyes. It's not as though he has much of a choice. "All right. Can we go, then?"

"Look after yourself," Lily bids.

"I will," Harry answers. He retrieves his backpack from beside the fireplace, and addresses the family's houseguest, "Granger. Good to see you."

"Likewise," Hermione politely replies, "Enjoy your class."

Harry nods briefly. "I always do."

-!- -#-

Sifu Qiang is over a hundred years old, though he doesn't look it. His hair is still mostly black, his skin lined with very few wrinkles, his posture unbowed with age. He's a wizard, once a member of the Imperial Court of China, and he's spent most of his life dedicated to the study of Martial Arts.

Harry's been attending lessons with him for nine years. Liam has too, if a little more reluctantly than his twin, and together, they've learned Tae-Kwan-Do, Karate, and Brazilian Ju Jitsu. They're not experts by any means, but the training has been useful in recent years, and neither of them can deny it.

They've learned other things, too - Sifu Qiang teaches more than just how to defend one's self - and in some respects, the man's training centre is as familiar to Harry as his own home. He's spent enough time there, anyway.

The lessons themselves had come about as the result of an attempted kidnapping shortly after Harry and Liam's sixth birthday. It had been thwarted, but their emergency port-keys had been rendered useless by temporary, hastily constructed wards, and it had only been Remus' and Sirius' quick reflexes that had freed Harry and Liam from their would-be kidnappers.

Afterwards, their parents had determined that it would be beneficial for both boys to be able to defend themselves from other attempts from anyone who would seek to do them harm. They'd been enrolled in Sifu Qiang's youth classes shortly thereafter, and they'd maintained the lessons ever since.

"It hasn't changed much, has it?" James observes. He studies the reception area, gaze simultaneously wary and curious, and offers a polite smile to the teenager behind the counter.

"Guess not," Harry replies. He steps passed him, and Su Lee's acknowledging grin is bright. "Hi, Harry. You here for another class? Or have you come to help me with my Ancient Runes project?"

"Hello, Su," Harry acknowledges, "I've got a session with Sifu Qiang this time. I can sort something out for the Runes project though, if you'd like?"

"Yes, I'd like," Su nods emphatically, "Classic Greek is going to be the death of me."

"So dramatic," Harry teases his housemate. She pulls a face, but she signs him in, and explains that Sifu Qiang - her Great-Grandfather - is still in another class, but it ought to be finished in a few minutes. "That's fine. I still have to get changed, anyway."

Su nods her acknowledgement, and Harry excuses himself to do just that. He stops by his father, first, who lingers near the entrance.

"Friend of yours?" James asks. There's a suggestive arch to his eyebrows that makes Harry roll his eyes.

"Housemate," Harry explains, "We're friends."

Hogwarts offers an (optional) fast-track elective program to students not enrolled in Wizarding Studies. It offers students the opportunity to begin their electives in First Year, rather than Third, and it's the reason why Harry and Su, despite their age and year level, are currently slogging through NEWT level projects for Ancient Runes and Arithmency. It's also the reason they'd become friends in the first place, but these days, a lot of people conveniently forget that they've been close since the age of 11.

"Right," James replies. He sounds dubious, but Harry knows better than to argue the point further. James Potter might have grown out of pranking, but he's still a Marauder, and one of his favourite pastimes involves riling up his sons.

"Are you hanging around, or…"

"No," James replies, "I'll leave you to it, but I'll meet you here afterwards. Nine o'clock?"

"Nine o'clock," Harry confirms.

"All right," James nods a brief acknowledgement, "I'll be off, then. Take care of yourself, don't get hurt. Stay safe."

He sighs impatiently. "I'll be fine, Dad."

His father looks hardly convinced, but he leaves regardless, and Harry continues to the change rooms. He returns to the foyer a few minutes later, dressed in his gi, and props himself against the front counter. He and Su talk - about their summers thus far, their plans for the weeks ahead, their thoughts on the homework they share - until Sifu Qiang's current class is dismissed.

"Time to get my arse kicked, I guess," Harry observes.

"Have fun," Su acknowledges. SHe's soon inundated with students, and Harry excuses himself to the training room. He bows at the entrance, and then again when Sifu Qiang meets his eyes. Sifu Qiang returns it with a bow of his own, and gestures him onto the mat once all of the formalities have been observed.

"Your brother," Sifu Qiang starts, "Does he speak the truth? Has that creature returned?"

Sifu Qiang spits out the word 'creature' like it tastes foul on his tongue. It's an apt term though - in reference to Voldemort, that is - and Sifu Qiang's disgust is gratifying. ,

"I believe him," Harry answers, "Our parents do, too. And Dumbledore, for what it's worth."

According to Su, her great-grandfather doesn't care much for the headmaster, or for the high esteem most of the British population regard him with. They're of an age - or close enough that the age difference is inconsequential - and moreover, China wasn't impacted by Grindelwald as most of Europe was. As such, he and his people weren't 'saved' by Albus Dumbledore, and subsequently, he's just another wizard to Sifu Qiang, and one with too much authority at that.

Harry's teacher nods thoughtfully. "You and your brother must prepare, then. Where is William?"

"He couldn't make it tonight."

"He must come every lesson," Sifu insists, "Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, every week. You will tell him, and I will send a letter."

Harry bows. "Yes, Sifu."

The lesson that follows is unlike any other Harry has ever had with Sifu Qiang. His teacher is as patient as ever, but the lesson itself is less about self defence, and more about doing the most damage - targeted towards disabling an opponent - in the least amount of time possible. His sparring partner is an enchanted sparring dummy, mercifully, but by 8:30, Harry's consternation is as apparent as his exhaustion.

"That creature and his servants will not go soft on you or your brother because you are young," Sifu Qiang reminds him, "They will laugh as they torture you, they will not feel regret for killing you or your family. Would you show them compassion?"

It's not the first time he's heard a lecture along those lines. His father and Sirius - former hitwizards, and veterans of the last war - have both reiterated it multiple times since they'd started up the training sessions in magical combat. Hearing it from Sifu Qiang doesn't make it any easier to swallow, though.

"Wouldn't it be sinking to their level?"

"Would you enjoy their suffering?"

"No," Harry denies. It's something he knows with every fibre of his being.

Sifu Qiang nods. He is unsurprised. "Perhaps you should meditate on this."

Sifu Qiang's cure for all conflicts of the mind, heart, and spirit is meditation. Although it had not been easy, he'd helped Harry and Liam get a handle on it as children, ensured they meditated regularly in order to maintain order of their respective minds and hearts, and monitored their progress in Occluamency to further ensure their mental and emotional clarity, defences, and wellbeing.

Although he's not convinced meditation will help with this particular concern, Harry doesn't protest. Instead, he spends the next half hour ruminating over his lesson, analysing his reservations, recognising, understanding, and accepting them, and then trying to let them go. He's not come to any sort of conclusion by the time nine o'clock rolls around - that will probably require a lot more soul-searching - but for now, his father is waiting for him, and Sifu Qiang needs to close up shop.

"Remember to tell William," Sifu Qiang says, "Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. Every week. And do not forget to meditate."

"I'll remember," Harry assures him. "Thank you, Sifu."

He accepts the letter Sifu Qiang offers him, bows towards the front of the room, and then towards his teacher, and then returns to the foyer to sign out. Su is still there, daydreaming behind the counter. She has their fifth year Charms textbook in front of her, a journal and a self-inking quill as well, but it seems she'd stopped studying - pre-reading? - a while ago.

Meanwhile, Harry's father is seated in one of the chairs bordering the foyer, scowling his way through that day's edition of the 'Daily Prophet'. There's a picture of Cornelius Fudge on the front page, and presumably, it's another article reassuring the public that Voldemort hasn't returned, that anyone who says otherwise is a delusional and/or attention-seeking liar, and there is nothing at all to worry about.

"Oh, hey," Su greets him, "How'd it go?"

"It was… Different," Harry replies, "How's the studying going?"

"It's going," Su replies on an exhale, "You're still going to help me with Ancient Runes?"

"Of course," Harry confirms genially, "I'll send you an owl?"

"I'll be waiting. And thanks, I really appreciate it," su acknowledges. She proceeds with signing him out, and then starts packing up her things. Harry's lesson was the last scheduled for the evening, and with his departure, Su and her great-grandfather can lock up and head home.

As his friend prepares to leave, Harry excuses himself to the changing rooms, where he returns to his jeans and T-shirt. It doesn't take him long, and he steps into the foyer in time to see his father and Sifu Qiang shake hands. Neither of them are smiling, their expressions instead solemn, and although Harry doesn't ask about the exchange, he's curious.

"Are you ready to go?" James asks.

Harry nods. He waves at Su, offers Sifu Qiang another bow, and then leaves with his father.

It's summer in Britain, so despite the time, the sun's barely set over Edinburgh, and the walk to Holly Cottage is unremarkable. It's warm though - warm for Scotland, anyway - and Harry's mind is on the shower and the food awaiting him at home. He broods over his lesson, too - over Sifu Qiang's expectations of him, in particular - and he's so lost in thought that he's surprised when they arrive at their destination.

"You remember the security phrase?" James asks.

Harry sighs, long-suffering. "Yes, Dad. You'll apparate home?"

James nods. "After I put out the fire here, yes."

"See you there, then." He retrieves a pinch of floo powder from the ceramic pot on the mantle, drops it into the merrily crackling fire, and steps into the resulting flames. "Potter Manor; Welsh Black."

And then, in a whirl of emerald flames, Harry disappears from Holly Cottage.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Boy Who Lived**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

**Chapter Three:**

Harry can't escape Hermione Granger. The girl is everywhere. She's there when he eats, when he visits the family library, in the summer lessons he shares with Liam. She's there when he sits up with his brother all night, when they and their father return from their morning runs, when they stumble out of their training sessions with the Marauders, when they pass time on the quidditch pitch, or in the climbing room, or in the stables. She's a constant presence, asking an endless amount of questions of the portraits, of the house elves, of the adults and Liam and Harry. She hoards books from the library, pesters him about his research, chides him about the way he treats his brother, and if Harry doesn't get away from her soon, he's going to lose his mind.

Neville, visiting for the weekend before their birthdays, commiserates. He's in Gryffindor, he's shared all of his classes with Granger for four years, shared a common room, housemates, a dining table, and he needs no explanation of exactly how grating the girl can be. He's also aware of their history, has seen it all unfold over their time at Hogwarts, and Neville's understanding is a refreshing change from the rest of his family's attitudes.

Lily thinks she's endearingly charming. James thinks their relationship - or lack thereof - is reminiscent of the Evans-Potter saga, circa 1975, and he smiles indulgently every time Harry complains about her. Remus preaches patience, Sirius suggests bedding his dislike of her out of his system, Liam only tells him to give her a chance.

"Thanks for listening," Harry sighs, and rubs wearily at tired eyes, "I'm sorry for unloading on you like that. It's just…"

"It's fine," Neville replies. He downs a mouthful of butter beer, flicks the cork across the table, and stares out towards the acres of untamed wildlife surrounding the lawns of Potter Manor, "A lot more interesting than anything I've got to say."

"Boring summer?"

"Same lessons as you, without the company, and with Gran as a tutor." They both wince. Optimistically, however, Neville adds, "I've been working in the greenhouses though, so that's all right."

"How's your gran as a teacher, then? As terrifying as I'm imagining, or…?"

Dowager Lady Augusta Longbottom is a no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners battle-axe with little patience for fools, for sheep, or for anyone who doesn't have the nerve to disagree with her. She'd fought in the war against Grindelwald, had disdained Voldemort and manipulated the Wizengamot to ensure his crusade didn't impact government policy, and had spent the years since his downfall working to maintain that same status quo. Technically, she's retired - Neville's father, Frank, is the Head of House Longbottom - but Harry can't imagine there's much that can slow Augusta Longbottom down, never mind retirement.

"It's all right. I get to argue with her during my Politics class, so that's fun."

Harry raises his drink in a toast, impressed. "You're a braver sod than I, my friend."

Neville laughs, grins, and they clink bottles across the table. "How's the workshop thing going? Do you think you want to become an enchanter?"

"I can't imagine wanting to make broomsticks all my life, that's for sure," Harry replies, "Ridiculously dull for how fun they are to use."

When Harry's not wading through the administrative minutia that comes with owning and running a business, sharpening carving tools or polishing broomsticks, his dad's got him carving rune sets into blocks of wood. The aim is to space and size them correctly, and equally with regards to depth, but thus far, Harry is failing spectacularly.

It's rather discouraging, in truth.

"So what are your other options?"

"Curse-Breaking, Ward Construction, Academia. I don't know, maybe I won't choose a field involving Ancient Runes at all."

"Is that a possibility?" Neville queries.

Harry tips his head, uncertain. "Apparently there are some quidditch teams interested in recruiting me. I don't know though, it's wicked, but it seems kind of…"

"Easy?" Neville suggests.

"Yeah," Harry agrees, "I think I'd get bored, just playing quidditch all day."

"Don't let Ron Weasley hear you say that."

"Share breathing space with that idiot? I don't think so, mate."

Ron Weasley is their classmate, but also someone Harry has known for years. In some ways, he's the quintessential Gryffindor - brash, impetuous, foolhardy - but in other ways, he's not. He's rude, lazy, selfish - far from the nobility, chivalry, and honour Gryffindor House is lauded for, - and despite his best efforts, Harry can't stand him.

It doesn't help that he'd turned his back on Liam the year prior - had let his supposed best friend down when Liam needed him - and Harry won't ever forgive or forget it. Not when his brother had been so very hurt by the betrayal.

Neville laughs again. "Gods, you're a terrible person."

"I like to think I'm just honest."

"That's one way of putting it, I suppose," Neville concedes.

Their conversation turns to other things - summer homework, birthday plans, the British and Irish Quidditch league - and it's in the midst of the latter that they're joined by Liam and Granger.

"Hi Liam, Hermione," Neville acknowledges them both, genial and polite as he ever is, "Did you get bored of the library?"

"Liam wanted some fresh air," Hermione explains, "We thought we'd join you. Is that all right?"

"We're not doing anything interesting," Harry replies, expression carefully impassive, "But if you like, sure."

Liam sits beside Harry, and helps himself to the half-consumed butter beer in front of his twin. Harry pulls a face as he does so, reaches for Neville's discarded cork, and lobs it at his brother's head.

"Get your own."

Liam laughs, unabashed and unapologetic, but he returns the butter beer, and summons Dancer to retrieve a couple more bottles for himself and Granger. The girl in question is notably silent as the exchange proceeds, but she accepts the beverage without protest, and thanks Dancer for his efforts before he leaves.

"What have you two been up to?" Liam queries. He's restless, drumming his fingers on the table, wriggling his toes, shifting in his seat, but he's always been like that, and none of them pay it any heed.

"Nothing, really," Neville shrugs, nonchalant, "I was kicking this sod's arse in wizard's chess, but that got boring, so we stopped playing a while ago."

"We were talking about taking the horses for a ride later," Harry adds, unfazed by Neville's teasing, "Neville's curious about the wildlife."

"The flora's been uncultivated for generations," Neville reasons, "I bet there's some plants in there that haven't been seen for ages."

"You want to go off the trails?" Liam asks, intrigued. "Can we come?"

Hermione frowns. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"That's debatable. It's still within the outer wards, which means we won't be attacked by Death Eaters or anything like that. There are natural threats to think about though, non-magical and magical animals, plants, the general risk of injury…"

"Would Mum and Dad allow it, though?" Liam wonders.

"Do they have to know?" Harry counters.

Liam mulls it over, and concedes, "They've never specifically said we have to stick to the trails."

Harry grins. "Precisely."

As children, the only rules regarding the woods was to stay inside the Manor during full moons. Remus used them to transform each month, frolicking about with Padfoot and Prongs while the boys slept through the night, and that hasn't changed over the years.

That month's full moon, however, has already passed, and as such, it's a non-issue.

"I don't know," Hermione hesitates.

Harry shrugs, indifferent. "If you don't want to come, that's fine. We're not going to force you."

Actually, he'd prefer if she _didn't_ join them, but at the end of the day, Hermione Granger is their guest, and it's his - and his family's - responsibility to make her feel welcome in their home. He doesn't have to like it - or her, for that matter - but quite frankly, Harry has no interest in finding out what his mother would make him do if he made Liam's friend feel _un_welcome.

"We can go swimming," Liam coaxes, "One of the trails leads to this spring-fed pool a few miles out, and it's always great in the summer. You like to swim, don't you?"

"I do," Hermione confirms. She hesitates further, but eventually acquiesces with a rueful grin, "All right, I'll go. But only because you've got me curious now."

Harry doesn't roll his eyes, but it's a near thing. Instead, he drains the last of his butter beer, pushes back his chair, and stands up with a stretch. "We'd better head in for lunch before the grown-ups get nosy. We'll sort out everything for the ride after."

"Oh, good, I'm starving," Liam says absently. He's already contemplating what they need for the afternoon's plans.

"What's for lunch?" Neville queries.

"Haven't the foggiest," Harry replies lightly, "Guess we're about to find out."

As it happens, lunch turns out to be a simple, informal meal of sandwiches, but the bread and roast beef are fresh from the ovens, the tomatoes and lettuce fresh from the Potter's Field. The vintage cheddar is homemade, too - cheese-making is a particular hobby of Dasher's - and it's all washed down by water infused with mint, strawberry, and watermelon.

The elder Potters are notably quiet throughout the meal, thoughtful and introspective, and they excuse themselves from the table as soon as they've both finished eating.

"What was that about?" Liam asks once he's sure they're out of hearing range. He's multi-tasking though, constructing another sandwich - his third - and he doesn't notice Harry's clueless shrug.

"I don't know."

"Do you think it's Voldemort?"

"Doubt it."

Harry's about one thousand per cent certain Liam is first on Voldemort's hit-list, and considering the wanker isn't hammering away at the public entrance of Potter Manor, it's probable that Voldemort is not involved - not directly, anyway - with whatever is going on with their parents. That leaves a whole host of other possibilities, of course, and the continued question of why Voldemort is still laying low beneath whatever rock he's crawled under, but Harry's determined not to worry about it - the parental issue, that is - until he has to.

Until then, he, Liam, and their houseguests have other plans.

-!- -#-

They casually meander between trees hundreds of years old. They're wand grade, alive with the chatter of botruckls and faeries, with birds, and squirrels, and everything else that calls the woodland home. The trail is clear though, dappled by sunlight through the overhead canopy, and the horses know the way besides.

Along the outskirts of the woods, there are a handful of magical villages interspersed through the trees, protected by the family's wards, and accessible only by flight, floo, or apparition. The inhabitants are loyal tenants of the Potter Estate, have been for generations, but they generally leave the forest alone, and therefore, the teens are undisturbed on their way.

"I can see why your family never cleared the land," Hermione says. She's not overly familiar with riding, so she shares a horse with Liam, "It's beautiful here. I thought it would be like the Forbidden Forest, but it isn't at all."

"The Forbidden Forest wasn't always the way it is now," Neville opines, "It used to be that the only reason it was forbidden was because it was a sanctuary for centaurs and satyrs and the like. But then it was tainted - someone brought in a colony of acromantula, of all things - and it's been a draw for dark creatures ever since."

"That's sad," Hermione says, "What happened to the satyrs?"

Neville shrugs. "Most of them left. Others weren't so lucky. The centaurs have only stayed because they're protecting the unicorns and bicorns, who have no where else to go."

"How do you know so much about it?" Liam queries, intrigued. Harry, meanwhile, wonders about the logistics behind moving herds of unicorns and bicorns and centaurs to the Potter Estate, where the woodland is untainted, and where they would be protected from the darkness due to beset Britain over the next few years.

"Professor Sprout and I go into the Forest sometimes," Neville explains, "We always have a centaur escort, just in case, and I asked him."

"His name is Galahad," Harry contributes, "He's great."

"You've been in there, too?" Liam glances between them, aghast.

Harry rolls his eyes. "Don't act like you haven't."

"Not voluntarily," Liam counters. His voice goes comically high-pitched at the end, and it's probably only years of horse-riding that keeps him from dramatically flailing his arms.

"He's got you there," Neville smirks, unapologetically entertained.

Harry shrugs, and explains, "I was curious."

"You were curious," Liam deadpans. "About the forest full of acromantula and Merlin knows what else. Why does that not surprise me?"

"It's not like I'm ever careless about it," Harry reasons, "I only ever go during the day, "I never leave Galahad or Professor Sprout's sight, and I always have my wand on me."

"Thank Merlin for small favours," Liam grumbles, but he _does_ calm down. "What did you think about it?"

"It's sad," Harry replies, "The way Galahad talks about it, the forest was beautiful at one point, but now…"

"It's impossible not to feel the darkness," Neville contributes, solemn, "It saturates everything."

They each fall silent then, lost in their own thoughts, and it isn't until they reach the freshwater pool that they are diverted. It's a peaceful place, a clearing ringed by trees, and taken up by the spring-fed pool in question. It gleams in the afternoon sunshine, but the water is delightfully refreshing, crisp and clear, and Hermione and Neville are both impressed.

"I almost don't want to leave," Neville says. He hesitates by his borrowed horse. Her name is Polly, and she's already had her fill of water. She's tethered to a tree now, and she's content to graze in the shade, "But the plants."

"Decisions, decisions," Harry quips.

"You think you're joking."

"Tomorrow's another day," Harry shrugs, nonchalant. "Whatever we don't get to today, we can do tomorrow."

"Let's just stick around here then," Neville decides.

Harry nods his acquiescence, drops his pack, and strips out of his jeans and T-shirt. He's wearing swim trunks underneath, and without ado, he wades into the refreshing cold of the spring-fed pool with a pleased sigh. Neville follows suit, Liam and Hermione aren't far behind, and despite himself, Harry has a pleasant time.

It helps that Hermione keeps her distance, doesn't inundate him with scowls and glares and more questions than one can throw a stick at, doesn't try to prove to everyone that she's the smartest person in the room - or pool, as it were. Rather, it's simply a restful, sun-drenched day with a refreshing swim and a pleasant view, and the peace remains for the remainder of the weekend.

At that point, though, Harry finds he has far more important matters to concern himself with, and despite her thinly-veiled curiosity, none of those matters concern Hermione Granger.

**Author's Note:** A bit of a delay while I build up my store of chapters. Will likely bulk update when I finish Chapter 10. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading. Until next time, -t.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Boy Who Lived**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

**Chapter Four:**

As soon as Neville leaves on Sunday evening, Harry is asked to meet with his parents in James' study. He glances at Liam when his father makes the request, but his twin is as surprised as Harry feels, and quickly just as concerned. Neither of them ask questions though, and instead, Liam guides Hermione towards the library - an apt distraction - while Harry follows his mother and father to the Head of House's study.

"Is everything all right?" Harry asks, settled in front of the oak desk that dominates the room. His parents are both solemn - not sad, per se, but not exactly thrilled, either - and their expressions make him nervous. "Has something happened?"

"I met with Lord Greengrass on Friday evening," James informs him.

Harry nods slowly. He was supposed to attend the meeting in an observational capacity, but he and Liam had instead attended a class with Sifu Qiang - to make up for the one they'd miss on Saturday - and his father hadn't mentioned it since. Harry had assumed, therefore, that it hadn't been anything to worry about, and he'd not dwelt on it further.

It seems he was wrong not to be concerned.

"Do they want to withdraw from the alliance?" Harry asks hesitantly.

In the past, the House of Greengrass had been notoriously neutral as far as the ideologies of blood and magic were concerned. They'd avoided formal involvement in Voldemort's war, and in Grindelwald's, and it wouldn't be much of a stretch to assume they want no part in Voldemort's second war, as well. To declare neutrality, however, would require that they withdraw from the Potter, Black, and Longbottom alliance. It would be a political blow if they did so, though, and it's why Harry is hesitant to ask.

"Quite the contrary, actually," James replies, "Lord Greengrass would like to solidify his ties to the Alliance in a more… Permanent fashion."

"It seems Riddle has no interest in respecting political neutrality this time around," Lily contributes, tone droll.

Harry frowns. "I don't understand. Isn't a permanent alliance a good thing?"

James sighs, weary. Harry tries not to be irritated by it - it's not as though his parents are being particularly clear with their explanation - but he's not overly successful. He grits his teeth though, and waits them out.

"He's concerned for his daughters," James explains, "He has already received a number of unfavourable betrothal contracts from Death Eaters or Death Eater sympathisers, and he is under a great deal of pressure to accept any one of them. They're disgusting though - I wouldn't wish betrothal terms like that on anyone - but to refuse is to risk retaliation, and he has no desire to leave his daughters vulnerable to entrapment. As such, he's asked us if the House of Potter was open to the possibility of a formal - less restrictive - betrothal."

"Right," Harry acknowledges mechanically. He's rather dumbfounded, too shocked to comprehend the magnitude of Lord Greengrass' enquiry - request? - and he's not sure what to say in response to hearing it. He needs time to think it over, to let the prospect settle over him, before he can decide how he feels about it. As is, his gut reaction is anger - that the House of Greengrass has been put in such a terrible position, that Lord Greengrass has asked this of them, that his parents haven't refused him outright - but experience contains his response to clenched fists, gritted teeth, and an angry exhale. His parents have no patience for misdirected tempers. "What do his daughters think?"

"They're not thrilled," James replies, and Harry can imagine that it's the understatement of the century. He's not overly close with Daphne or Astoria Greengrass - acquainted, if barely - but he knows them well enough to know that neither of them are the type to appreciate it as others make decisions for them. Particularly when those decisions concern themselves so significantly. "But they do recognise that something must be done in order to keep them safe."

"I don't like it."

"Neither do we," Lily replies, "Which is why we haven't yet agreed to Lord Greengrass' proposal. We only committed to discussing the matter with you."

"Not Liam?"

"It depends on your decision," James says honestly, "But as my heir, I believe you are Lord Greengrass' first choice. If you refuse the betrothal-"

"We wouldn't begrudge you if you did," Lily interjects, "And the choice is entirely up to you."

"-Then we will raise the matter with your brother."

And regardless of his own happiness, Liam would do it. Not because Daphne Greengrass is beautiful and intelligent or such things, or because Astoria Greengrass is sure to be as much of a catch as her sister in a few years, but because Liam's hero complex is unmistakeable. He'd do anything to ensure the world sees less victims of Voldemort, of the Death Eaters, of the traditionalist extremism that has caused so much unspoken and unacknowledged harm to countless witches - to the mothers and daughters and sisters and wives - of Britain's magical community.

Harry doesn't groan, but it's a very, very near thing. He's not sure if it's resignation, or defeat or displeasure, or a combination of all of the above, but either way, he already knows he's going to say yes. Not because he's particularly interested in marrying Daphne or Astoria, or because he's remotely amenable to the concept of being bound to a betrothal contract, but because if the alternative means that Liam will take his place, refusing isn't an option.

There isn't a lot he wouldn't do for his brother, but still…

"I want to think about it," Harry declares. He wants time to consider what he'd want out of a betrothal contract - escape clauses for both parties, at the very least - and he can't do that with his parents both watching him, awaiting an answer.

"Of course," James acquiesces, "But please, Harry, don't take too long. It's a rather tenuous situation."

"I won't," Harry replies on an exhale. He gets up to leave, approaches the door, and hesitates. "Thank you. For asking me."

"We wouldn't arrange something like this without your consent, Harry," Lily says, "But for what it's worth, you're welcome."

With a feeble smile, Harry leaves the study, makes a brief detour to his bedroom to change clothes, and then makes his way to the climbing room. It's a marvel of Enchanting, designed to sense the climber's skill and adjust the climbing holds accordingly, to slow the climber's descent when they drop from the walls, to catch them on cushioned ground. It requires no harnesses, no ropes, it maps out climbing routes with colour-changing holds as part of it's training features, and it was crafted by both of his parents when Harry and Liam were toddlers.

It's also one of Harry's preferred methods of working through his issues, second only to flying. It gets him out of his head long enough to separate himself from a situation, gives him a (more immediate) challenge to focus on, distracts him long enough to exhaust his anger through an outlet that is both productive and non-violent.

On this particular occasion, he climbs for hours, but despite his best efforts, he can't shake the thoughts of his discussion with his parents for the life of him. Instead, they run through his mind on a constant loop, the mental image of a cold, loveless future with a wife he barely knows pervasive and omnipresent, and his anger simmers beneath his skin. He continues climbing anyway, and no one stops him.

-!- -#-

Harry doesn't sleep that night. He sets up camp in the Wizarding Law section of the library instead, where he jots down notes of what clauses he would and wouldn't want in a betrothal contract, familiarises himself with contract and marriage law for Magical Britain, and reviews his understanding of the House of Potter's family charter. Specifically, the part of the charter concerning marriages and formal alliances.

It's dry, tedious reading, and Magical Britain's legal rights for female spouses are woefully, outrageously lacking, but Harry pursues his research with a restless, frenetic sort of energy he can't shake for the life of him.

In fact, it isn't until Liam drops gracelessly into the seat beside him that Harry is diverted, and even then, it's only because his brother's face is pale, his shirt soaked in sweat, his hands trembling where he fidgets with his fingers on the tabletop.

A bad night, Harry surmises, and he tries not to worry.

"You weren't in your room," Liam says. He makes an attempt at sounding accusatory, but he mostly sounds terrified. His eyes look huge in his face, pupils blown with fright, and Harry's guilt is poignant. He's never not been there when his brother needs him.

"Sorry," Harry replies, "I couldn't sleep."

"You stole my line," Liam jests feebly. He casts his gaze over Harry's research materials, and frowns. "What's all this, then?"

"It's what Mum and Dad wanted to talk to me about," Harry explains, "Lord Greengrass is in a bind, it seems."

"But this?" Liam gestures at the books spread across the table, "A contract? That's not fair."

"No," Harry agrees, "But I suppose that's life, isn't it?"

Liam grunts his acknowledgement. He's not mollified in the slightest. "You can't honestly say you want this?"

"Of course not," Harry huffs, "But the alternatives are worse."

"Like what?" Liam asks, dubious.

"Does it matter?"

"Well, yes," Liam replies. He seems energised with something other than his own nightmares to focus on, but Harry's not sure he has it in himself to discuss with his brother the reasons why he hasn't refused their parents' request outright. As is, the research has already left him drained, "Mum wouldn't just go along with something like this. There has to be a reason why she hasn't already told Lord and Lady Greengrass to take their contract and shove it."

Resigned, Harry begrudgingly explains Lord Greengrass' issue, and Liam listens intently. He's appropriately outraged by the situation, of course, and like Harry, he's angry with the traditionalists, with Lord Greengrass, with their parents.

"Why you, though?" Liam wonders.

"I think Lord Greengrass would be rightly chuffed if one of his daughters becomes Lady Potter one day," Harry says sardonically.

Liam scoffs, unimpressed but also unsurprised. "Typical. Pureblood politics at it's finest."

Harry nods his agreement, and doesn't mention that Liam would have been approached if Harry had refused. Liam would take it into his head to spare Harry the misery of a betrothal contract and subsequent arranged marriage, they'd argue about Liam's hero complex and Harry's overprotective tendencies, it would create more drama than either of them wants or needs, and they'd both be distracted from other - more important - things.

"Let's see this list, then," Liam sighs, "No doubt, you've missed something obvious in your over-analysing."

Harry pulls a face, but nonetheless, he offers Liam the list in question, and returns to the family charter while his brother reviews it. Liam mumbles to himself as he does so, adds brief notes in the margins with the fountain pen he nicks from Harry, flicks through the available resources in search of legal specifics and contract precedents.

They stay like that for hours, researching, contributing to the list, debating certain points, tactfully avoiding the possible - and embarrassing to talk about - reasons behind others. It's dawn by the time they're both satisfied with it, and Harry rewrites it, sans the revisions and notes in the margins.

"Here you are," James props his hands on the back of their chairs, studies the spread in front of them, and observes mildly, "I see you two have been busy. Did you get any sleep at all?"

"No."

Liam shrugs. "A little bit. Might skip the run this morning though."

Harry grunts his agreement, but doesn't look up from his writing.

"You've come to a decision, then?"

"I have conditions,"

"I'd be surprised if you didn't. Shall we discuss them after breakfast?"

"Don't you need to head to the workshop this morning?" Liam queries.

"This is more important," James answers, "Besides, I'm my own boss. I work when I want to."

"Must be nice," Liam mumbles.

"Indeed," James replies dryly.

Harry finishes writing out the last of his conditions in question, dries the ink with an absent-minded tap of his wand on parchment, and rolls it up with a weary sigh. He ties it shut with a length of twine, hands it over to his patiently watching father, and then proceeds with tidying up his work area. Liam half-heartedly assists, but before long, the books and scrolls have been returned to their shelves, the rubbish banished to the nearest bin, and his stationery returned to his warded alcove.

"Do you think you'll be able to grab some sleep before breakfast?" James asks them. The scroll has disappeared to locations unknown, but Harry doesn't bother wondering about it.

"No," he replies. Beside him, Liam simultaneously shakes his head. "I thought I might get some more climbing in."

"Not a chance," James counters, "You pushed yourself too hard yesterday."

Harry opens his mouth to argue, but his father's glare silences him. Apparently, protesting isn't an option this morning.

Harry pulls an unhappy face, but he doesn't want his father in a bad mood for their post-breakfast discussion, and so he doesn't complain.

"Perhaps some Tai Chi or Yoga?" James suggests.

Tai Chi and Yoga were introduced to James in the months after Voldemort's fall in 1981. It had been encouraged as a means of obtaining some clarity of mind during the throws of his grief; forms of moving meditation that suited him far better than the meditation techniques he'd been introduced to as a child.

Over a decade later, and practising both is a habit he maintains for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is because it helps with Occluamency. Because Sifu Qiang is a vocal proponent of both arts, however, Liam and Harry are often 'strongly encouraged' to partake, as well. They rarely do so with any degree of enthusiasm.

Liam pulls a face, Harry's tempted to do the same, but he can't deny the stretches would probably do him some good. His muscles are already protesting the treatment from the evening prior.

As Liam bows out with the excuse that he might attempt sleep after all, Harry sighs, and resigns himself to his fate. "Lead the way."

-!- -#-

**Author's Note:** Despite my intentions, I haven't done any writing since early December, but I feel bad about the delay. Hence, an update. Here's hoping reviews will feed the muse… Hope you've enjoyed. Until next time, -t.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Boy Who Lived**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

**Chapter Five:**

It's a long, mentally draining discussion, but by the end of it, Harry's most important conditions have been accepted by his parents, the wording refined, and the list added to by both James and Lily, who have requirements of their own.

"You are aware that House Greengrass has the right to refuse?" James asks. "They may not agree with some of these requirements."

"I don't see why they would say no," Lily opines. She doesn't approve of betrothal contracts, but she hasn't protested Harry's decision. He imagines his parents have already argued about it, at length, but he doesn't ask, and he never will. "It's better than anything they'll receive elsewhere."

"It's not like we _asked_ for a contract," Harry contributes, "If they refuse, then that's their choice. No skin off _our_ nose, is it?"

James nods his acknowledgement or agreement - Harry's not sure which - and informs them, "I'll arrange a meeting with Lord Greengrass for as soon as possible. I would like you both to attend."

"Wednesday or Friday evening, then," Harry replies. His lessons with Sifu Qiang are rather important, and constantly rescheduling when his teacher has other students to teach would be rude and inconsiderate. "Neville's got his birthday luncheon on Saturday, as well, remember."

"I'll keep that in mind," James says, and sets down his fountain pen. He pulls off his glasses to rub at his eyes, and gives a long, drawn out sigh. "But I suppose we've done all we can do until we're able to meet with them."

"Which means it's time for me to head to work," Lily determines. She runs Iolanthe - the potions company Fleamont Potter built from the ground up - and has used her Mastery in Potions to expand it further. These days, not only does Iolanthe produce skincare, haircare, and cosmetic potions and lotions and such things, but medicinal, domestic, and agricultural products, as well. It's an extremely successful business throughout Britain and Europe, one Lily is immensely passionate about, and it demands a lot of her time. As such, Harry is not remotely surprised by his mother's statement.

Without ado, she rises from her seat, gathers up her robes, and presses a kiss to James' cheek before she leaves. She cards a hand through Harry's hair before she goes, and instructs, "Get some rest, Harry."

It's tempting. He's already missed most of his lesson on Estate Management with the portrait of his grandfather, Charles, and he's not required in his father's workshop until after lunch, but he hesitates. He still has holiday homework to complete, and he's barely begun the design portion of his Ancient Runes project, and of course, the portrait of Charles will expect him to catch up on the material he'd missed that morning.

"Go," James insists, a fond smile on his face, "Get a quick kip in, Harry. As much as I can appreciate your work ethic, a nap won't kill you. Besides, exhaustion breeds mistakes, and you don't want to make mistakes in an enchanter's workshop."

"I'm not enchanting anything though," Harry counters, mostly for argument's sake.

"No," James agrees, "But I have no interest in encouraging bad habits. Besides, the amount of effort you put into this list, you've earned a bit of a nap."

"Liam helped."

"And he's already had one, hasn't he?"

Harry's smile is mirthless. "One can only hope."

"Quite," James ruefully concedes.

As his father descends into a sad, thoughtful silence, Harry gathers up the notes he'd taken during the meeting - mostly regarding his parents contributions to the list of conditions - and readies himself to leave the study.

"I'll send someone up to wake you for lunch," James informs him.

Harry nods his acknowledgement. "All right, see you then."

After he deposits his notes on the desk in his own - significantly smaller, and far less used - study, Harry retreats into his bedroom, changes into something comfortable, and collapses into bed. A few moments later, he's out like a light, but he doesn't stay that way for long. His sleep is restless, fraught with inscrutable dreams and an inexplicable sense of panic, and Harry jolts awake with the unexplainable, unequivocal feeling that he's forgotten something extremely vital.

Harry rubs his eyes, tired and confused, but resigns himself to a day endured without sleep. It won't be the first time - it certainly won't be the last - and at least this way, he can catch up on his missed lesson with Charles without risk of falling behind on anything else.

With that in mind, Harry uses the loo, showers, and dresses comfortably, gathers up a self-inking quill and his Estate Management notebook, and wanders off in search of the portrait of his grandfather. He's pointed towards the library by a few paintings of his other - more helpful - ancestors, but before Harry can find Charles within one of the empty frames in the room in question, he finds Hermione instead.

"What are you doing?" Harry asks, though the answer seems obvious.

His family's house guest startles guiltily, and whirls on her feet, wand raised and pointed towards him. He looks back, unimpressed and irritated, because she's the one trying to break through the privacy ward he'd painstakingly crafted under Remus' watchful eye, and if anyone should be on the offence, it should certainly not be her.

As is, the only reason why Harry hasn't outwardly lost his temper is because he's spent most of his life learning to contain his emotions, to hide them from the world behind a facade of cool indifference. With the knowledge that his family's political rivals - not to mention the Press - would use any indication of weakness against him, he only ever allows himself to be vulnerable around friends and family, and as things stand, and despite her relationship with Liam, Hermione Granger is neither.

"I thought you were sleeping?"

"I woke up," Harry replies, "So, is there a reason why you're trying to break through my privacy ward?"

"I-I-"

"Because privacy wards exist for a reason, and I didn't build it for laughs."

"I was curious," she explains.

"That is abundantly obvious, but that still does not explain why you were trying to access my research. Did no one ever teach you to mind your own business, or to mind your manners in other peoples' houses?"

Hermione flinches, and avoids his gaze.

"You are a guest in my family's home, Granger. Next time you feel the need to go poking around private spaces, perhaps you should remember that. To invade - or to have the _intent_ to invade - someone else's privacy is the height of ill manners, and family alliances have fallen apart for less."

Harry doesn't wait around to hear what else she has to say. He strides away, still irritated, still outraged by Granger's audacity, and the affront broils beneath his skin. His magic stirs restlessly with his temper, and so distracted by the girl's actions, Harry doesn't notice that he's found Charles until his grandfather addresses him.

"You look rather disgruntled, Henry," Charles observes, "Is there something the matter?"

"I just found Granger trying to break through my privacy ward," Harry explains.

"Quite rude of her," Charles remarks. "What do you intend to do about it?"

"Nothing for now, except maybe ask Liam to keep a better eye on his friend," Harry replies, sweeps his hand through his hair, and paces a circle in front of his grandfather's portrait, "If I catch her again, though, I'll inform my mother. She's responsible for any female wards our family takes in, and it'll be up to her to decide what to do about Granger."

Charles hums his acknowledgement. "If that is what you think is best."

"You don't agree?"

"She is a muggle-born, is she not?" Charles asks. Harry nods his confirmation, and the portrait of his grandfather continues, "Likely, she doesn't understand the insult she has just committed. Perhaps some education in the matter is required?"

"Hogwarts has a mandatory Wizarding Culture class for all incoming muggle-borns."

"And I highly doubt an entire culture can be taught through lectures and a textbook," Charles counters, dismissive, "Some things will have surely been overlooked."

"That may be so, but privacy wards are self-explanatory, aren't they?"

"Even the cleverest of people may sometimes overlook the obvious," Charles reasons, "I do recall that your mother had much to learn, as well. She was a very diligent student."

Harry sighs, inexplicably weary. "Then I'll be sure to let Mum know when she gets home. Let her sort things out." Charles nods his acknowledgement, and Harry informs him, "Before I found Granger, I was actually looking for you. Are you free to catch me up on today's lesson?"

"I am," Charles confirms, "But in exchange, perhaps you can tell me how your meeting with James and Lily went?"

"I can do that," Harry acquiesces. He's not thrilled to - he'd rather forget about it altogether, actually - but in his lifetime, Charles had been betrothed to Dorea, and despite the arranged nature of their union, they'd been quite happy together. As such, he'd probably be able to offer Harry an insight he won't receive from anyone else aware of the situation. "Maybe you can point out some things I've overlooked. Can you meet me in my study?"

Suddenly, he's rather uncomfortable with the thought of such matters discussed in such a public space, family library or no.

The portrait of Charles rises from the wing-backed chair he'd been lounged in, and wanders out of the portrait. Harry, similarly, wanders out of the library, returns to his bedroom suite, and finds Charles already inside his study, settled comfortably in the empty frame over Harry's fireplace.

"Shall we begin?"

Harry drops into the seat behind his desk, opens his journal to a blank page, and replies, "Let's."

-!- -#-

When Harry shuffles into the kitchen, James glances up from his meal, expression deadpan. "I see your nap went well."

Harry is unapologetic. "I tried."

James hums his acknowledgement, and he replies blandly, "I'm sure."

"I probably wouldn't be able to sleep if I was him, either," Liam opines. "A lot to think about, I imagine."

"You're not sleeping anyway," Harry reminds him. He doesn't disagree, though.

As he crosses the room, careful to stay out of the way of the elves cheerfully hard at work, Hermione watches their exchange in silence, curious and confused. Liam hasn't told her what's going on - it's family business, and he knows better - but their house guest doesn't ask, and Harry makes no move to enlighten her. In some ways, the Ravenclaw does so out of spite, but also, it's none of her concern, and neither does he have any interest in hearing her opinion regarding the matter.

"Not relevant," Liam counters.

"Equally concerning, however," James interjects. He helps himself to a second falafel wrap, and looks over his glasses at both of his sons.

As they endure their father's scrutiny,Liam smiles wanly, and he doesn't argue.

Harry doesn't either. He drops into his usual seat instead, and helps himself to the lunch provided by Dancer. It's toasted wraps this time, accompanied by a garden salad, sliced fruits, and fruit-infused water, and a famished Harry eats his meal with relish. All the while, Hermione avoids his gaze, instead quizzes Liam about his art, and Harry tunes out the conversation, instead makes his way through his lunch on autopilot, and once more dwells on the looming, unpleasant prospect of a betrothal contract between Houses Greengrass and Potter.

As can be expected, Harry isn't remotely thrilled about it, but despite his parents liberal ideologies, a betrothal contract has never been completely out of the realm of possibility for himself or for Liam. In that regard, Harry has more or less resigned himself to the situation, unpleasant as it is.

With that in mind, he tries not to resent the parties involved. It could be far worse, after all, and at the end of the day, holding on to his bitterness won't be good for anyone.

Wryly, Harry considers the fact that he should probably offer Hermione Granger the same consideration, but Harry's not that magnanimous. Moreover, it's not like he'll have to marry _her_.

"Sirius and Remus are coming over this evening," James informs him, "Are you feeling up to a training session with them?"

"Sure," Harry acquiesces. He still aches from his ill-advised climbing session the evening prior, and his fatigue will do him no favours, but he and Liam need the practice. His parents have continued the training sessions despite Granger's presence in their home, and also despite Sirius' and Remus' absence, but variety in trainers, in forms of magical combat and such things can only serve Harry and Liam well in the future.

With a war against Voldemort imminent, he hopes as much, anyway.

"I haven't seen them in a while. Is everything all right?"

"They've been busy," James explains, "Dumbledore's got us doing some work for the Order."

Harry tries not to panic at the thought, but he's mostly unsuccessful. The reality that his loved ones may be hurt - or worse - during whatever they're doing is terrifyingly real, a led weight against his chest Harry can't shake for the life of him, and not even Occluamency can hide his dread. "Are you safe? What kind of work?"

In the name of discretion, his father replies in Welsh. Harry's not sure why he bothers - Liam will just tell Hermione what he learns later - but he isn't interested enough in the answer to ask. "Remus has been visiting the packs unaffiliated with Fenrir Greyback. Sirius and I have been doing what we can to minimise Death Eater influence in the Wizengamot. We've not had as much success as we'd like, with Malfoy in Fudge's pockets, but we're as safe as we can be, I suppose."

Harry's not reassured. Fenrir Greyback's reputation precedes him, but even some of the packs unaffiliated with Greyback are known to be vicious. Moreover, Death Eaters are dangerous - even in the Wizengamot Chambers - and although the Marauders are each excellent in their own ways, they are not invulnerable.

"What's he got Mum doing?"

"Brewing, mostly. Some research. Nothing that you need to worry about."

Harry's smile is wry, but he can't deny that it's something of a relief to hear. "Thank Merlin for small favours, I suppose."

James hums his agreement, and they speak no more regarding the Order.

It's something of a contentious issue between the family - Liam wants to be involved, Harry's dubious of their methods, James and Lily are adamant that Harry and Liam can't join until they leave Hogwarts - and for the sake of peaceful coexistence, it's safer if it isn't addressed at all. There are other issues, too, surrounding Dumbledore, his actions and his allies, and both James and Lily are unapologetically vocal regarding their criticisms of the Hogwarts Headmaster. It makes Harry rather cynical in turn, and the only reason they are active, participating members of the Order of the Phoenix at all is because without creating one, there are no other alternatives for countering Voldemort, his Death Eaters, their ideologies, and their inevitable reign of terror.

Not until the Ministry of Magic gets its act together, in any case, and even then, that's debatable.

"What time will they get here?"

"I told them to get here around five," James answers. Harry nods his acknowledgement, returns his attention to his meal, and attempts to muster up a sense of enthusiasm for their arrival.

With the knowledge that he'll soon have his arse kicked six ways to Sunday, however, Harry fails spectacularly.

-!- -#-

**AUthor's Note:** The reason for the delay is because I'm stuck 2/3 of the way through Chapter 8. It's an expositional scene, and Harry doesn't want to expose (exposition?) but whatever, I'm in lockdown for the foreseeable future, so I can probably carve time out of my exceedingly busy schedule to work on it. Take care of yourselves, be kind to others. The world's gone kind of crazy, and My mum's stockpiled a four month supply of toilet paper (I'm embarrassed on her behalf) but we (the world) will get through this. Until next time, -t.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Boy Who Lived**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

**Chapter Six:**

"I thought we might start something new today," James informs the teens, "We'll get to the sparring in a bit, but Lily and I have been talking, and we both feel it would be beneficial for the three of you to learn the Animagus Transformation."

As Hermione's eyes light up with interest, Liam coughs awkwardly, shifts on his feet, and averts his gaze. Similarly, Harry stares at the ceiling, and his face is on fire.

Beside James, Sirius starts to laugh.

"Or not," James observes, "Henry? William? Do you have something to tell me?"

Liam and Harry share a glance. Harry tilts his head, questioning, Liam shrugs in response, and Harry sighs, resigned.

Liam clears his throat. "We might have started teaching ourselves in Third Year?"

"You don't sound so sure."

"We definitely started teaching ourselves in Third Year," Liam reiterates more confidently. Even as Hermione gapes at them as though they're an alien species, Liam is bolstered by Sirius' and Remus' evident good humour. James' face could probably be carved from marble though, and Harry doubts their father is as entertained.

When their mother - who'd been delayed at work - finds out, she certainly won't be.

"I cannot express how absurdly irresponsible that was," James says sharply, "You two could have been seriously hurt!"

"You lot did it," Liam counters mulishly. He's irritated by the reprimand, Harry is too,, but Liam's always had less qualms about expressing himself.

"Yes, and it was extremely dangerous," James replies, "I told you about all of our accidents as a cautionary tale; Not to encourage you to go ahead and repeat them. What in Merlin's name were you two thinking?"

"It was after Second Year," Harry explains carefully. Liam is silent beside him, a scowl on his face, "I suppose it was around then we realised Voldemort was eventually going to find a way to come back."

"He'd already nearly killed us," Liam contributes, "He didn't even have a body, and he was powerful enough to use wandless magic like it was nothing. We couldn't rely on the grown-ups to save us indefinitely-"

"Not that the Hogwarts staff ever did much of that to begin with," Harry interjects bitterly. He still has nightmares and scars from his various confrontations with Quirrell, from their sojourn into the Chamber of Secrets, from their assorted encounters with the dementors of Azkaban.

"-And I guess we wanted to be proactive. Our luck wouldn't - _won't_ \- last forever."

"That was the summer you two really committed to the training," Sirius recalls thoughtfully.

Harry nods his confirmation. That summer, they'd thrown themselves into the magical combat training, to their MMA lessons, into further developing their mental shields. They'd studied the theory behind the Animagus Transformation intensively, and in September of 1993, they'd begun the search for their respective spirit animals.

In many ways, the summer - and the search that ensued - had been exhausting and discouraging, but ultimately fruitful, and Harry and Liam had both learned a great deal from the experience. As such, despite expecting it, their father's reaction is somewhat disheartening.

He doesn't even seem curious.

"We didn't tell you because we figured you wouldn't help us."

"Bloody right we wouldn't have!" James exclaims, uncharacteristically vocal. Good-natured and mild-mannered, he's rather difficult to fluster normally - or at least, he's exceedingly good at hiding it - and so his outburst is somewhat startling.

"What do you want us to say?" Liam asks, "Neither of us are going to apologise, and it would be extremely hypocritical of you to expect us to."

James throws his hands up, resigned and frustrated and any number of other things, and stalks out of the room. Remus follows him with a rueful sigh, and it isn't until they're well out of hearing range that the silence is broken once more.

"What are your forms, then?" Sirius asks,curious.

"I'd rather not say," Harry says, as Liam opens his mouth to do just that. He's been looking forward to the opportunity to brag, "The less people who know, the less likely it will get out to anyone else."

Liam rolls his eyes, unsurprised by Harry's paranoia, but no less exasperated by it.

Sirius doesn't argue. He will later, when Hermione isn't present, but for now, he asks instead, "What have you managed so far?"

"Arms and legs," Liam replies, "I've got the tail down, Harry's managed his ears and nose. I guess we've been procrastinating with the rest…"

"Understandable," Sirius acknowledges, "The head and the torso are the hardest parts to manage, and the most dangerous."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Hermione asks, focus on Liam. She sounds hurt, and witnessing this conversation is the last thing Harry wants to do today.

Sirius meets Harry's gaze with his own, and gestures for them to leave Liam and Hermione to their discussion.

Gratefully, Harry doesn't protest, and they wander over to another side of the training room, far out of hearing range of the other two. Neither notice.

"I wouldn't worry about your dad too much. He's proud of you two, really. It's just that the fact he knows all of the ways the transformation could have gone wrong doesn't sit well with his desire to smother you both in cushioning charms."

"I'm more worried about Mum, to be honest." He still feels guilty about disappointing and scaring their dad, so his godfather's certainty is reassuring, but Lily Evans-Potter is a force of nature. "She's terrifying."

"That she is," Sirius agrees, "You should count your blessings. SHe's gotten a lot less hex happy with age. She probably won't curse you."

"I'm sure that will help me sleep better at night," Harry replies glibly. He doesn't mention his mother's liberal use of the stinging hex when Harry and Liam were small. Sirius probably already knows about it, and if he doesn't, it's likely because James and Lily consider it none of Sirius' business.

"Glad to be of service," Sirius replies, and bows theatrically. When he straightens up, he has his wand in hand. "Think fast!"

As Sirius sends a stunning spell rocketing towards him, Harry lunges to the right on reflex, fumbles for his wand, and offers his godfather a disgruntled scowl. Sirius is undeterred though, and between dodging and shielding Sirius' unending chain of spells, and vainly attempting an offence of his own, Harry doesn't have much of an opportunity to express his displeasure.

"No fancy casting," Sirius reminds him. He looks entirely unruffled, and Harry sort of wants to punch him in the face, "Save that for the duelling circuit. In an actual fight, you want to stick to a handful of spells you can cast quickly, easily. You know this, Harry."

As Sirius continues with his barrage of hexes, Harry nods jerkily. He's created a list of spells to subdue an opponent, and he's also - with a great deal of hesitation - created a list of curses that have the potential to put someone down permanently. Each list is limited to 10 incantations, but Harry hasn't reached a point where he can cast them all with the same speed, accuracy, and magical output that Sirius is presently demonstrating, never mind doing so wordlessly, or in the form of apparently effortless spell-chains.

If Harry is honest with himself, it's hard to believe he ever will.

He's certainly not going to stop trying to reach that point, in any case. It's too important, too vital for the months - maybe years - ahead of them, and quite frankly, Harry is far too stubborn - too proud, really - to give up the training when he has already poured so much time and effort into the sessions. It's not in his nature to do so, and Harry can't imagine that will ever change.

"Focus, Harry," Sirius rebukes sharply. As he does so, a whip of blue flames snaps passed Harry's ear. It doesn't make contact, but Harry grits his teeth against the heat, chagrined all the same, "You need to stay alert, always. A fight is no place for daydreaming. Don't hesitate to get in close, either; Use those Martial Arts skills you've learned."

Harry shields against Sirius' next barrage of spellfire, but he's so intently focused on maintaining his defence that he doesn't notice Remus behind him until the stunning spell makes impact against his shoulder blade. The next thing he knows, he's on the ground, the Marauders crouched on either side of him.

"You alright there, Harry?" Sirius asks.

"Yeah," Harry replies, disappointed with himself. He sits up, eschewing their offered assistance, and reaches for his wand, "That was embarrassing, though."

"I wouldn't worry too much," Remus says, "It was a dirty trick, but I figure Death Eaters don't play fair, so it's something you ought to be prepared for."

"In that vein, we'll be working on your situational awareness for the rest of your holidays," Sirius contributes, "Constant vigilance, and all that."

Harry nods his acquiescence, casts his gaze over the room, and queries, "Where's Dad?"

Liam and Hermione are seated cross-legged on the other side of the room. Hermione is meditating - trying to, at least - but Liam is watching Harry, curious and concerned and sympathetic. Despite Remus' return, however, James is nowhere in sight.

"Your mum just got home," Remus explains, "I imagine he's informing her of your extra-curricular studies."

"Great,. I'm sure she's thrilled."

"You reap what you sow," Remus replies mildly. Harry grunts his acknowledgement, but he doesn't disagree, "I'd advise you brace yourself."

Harry's expression is sardonic. "You think?"

As Lily strides into the room beside James, incandescent with fury and still dressed in her robes for work, Remus doesn't get a chance to answer. Instead, the two canine Marauders and Hermione make themselves scarce, and Harry, indeed, braces himself. Beside him, Liam does too, and the united front of James and Lily Potter descend upon their sons with all of the anger and fear and disappointment Harry and Liam expected and then some, and it's terrible. There are tears, angry words, accusations, unanswerable questions, and by the time they are sent to their rooms, their punishments assigned, Harry is emotionally and mentally drained.

If the expressions on his parents' and brother's faces are anything to go by, Harry expects he's not the only one.

-!- -#-

Harry and Liam are barred from the climbing room, from flying, from Liam's art studio for two weeks. Any new magical projects they want to start have to be approved by James or Lily, they'll be cleaning the stables and taking care of the equines they keep there for the remainder of the Summer, and they're both expected to aid in guiding Hermione through the beginning stages of the Animagus Transformation.

Harry's not thrilled, particularly about teaching their houseguest, and it's still on his mind the following morning, through his jog with Liam, through their first round of chores (feeding the animals, mucking out stalls, sweeping up hay, grooming the horses, pegasi, and abraxins) ), through a late breakfast they eat outside, and through the shower Harry languishes in afterwards.

He's still stewing over it when he enters the library for he and Liam's next lesson with Charles, and the sight of Granger quizzing the portrait of he and Liam's grandfather doesn't help things.

Liam glances up as Harry drops into the seat beside him. He's freshly showered, as well, but he's slumped in his seat, and his acknowledging smile is weary.

"What's going on?"

"Hermione's asking Taid about what he did during World War II," Liam explains.

"She couldn't do that some other time?"

Liam rolls his eyes. "Can you stop looking for reasons to criticise everything she does?"

Harry grunts and pulls a face, but he doesn't protest the accusation. It's become something of a reflex over the years - a defence mechanism against her hostility - and it's not a habit he's willing to break just because they're sharing a living space. Quite frankly, he doesn't like Hermione Granger, and despite Liam's efforts, he can't imagine that will ever change.

Trust his brother to call him out on his attitude, though.

"Mum's coming home at lunchtime," Liam informs him, and the non sequitur is a surprise, "We're going shopping for some new clothes. The Greengrass' are coming for dinner tomorrow night."

Harry struggles to breathe, oddly winded. A lead weight has made itself known behind his sternum, and he rather feels like throwing up. "So soon?"

Liam shrugs, and tactfully doesn't point out how squeaky Harry's voice gets. "I suppose they want to sort things out as soon as possible."

"Great," Harry acknowledges dully. He's aware, of course, that the issue is rather urgent, but he'd not expected to have it shoved in his face so quickly.

Liam grimaces, sympathetic, but there are no words to say to make Harry feel remotely better, and so he averts his gaze, meets Charles' acrylic eyes over Hermione's head, and arches his eyebrows, expectant. In turn, the portrait of Charles winks in response, wraps up his conversation with the girl, and starts up yet another Government, Law, and Politics lesson.

As he does so, Harry takes up his fountain pen with a resigned sigh, sets aside thoughts of Daphne Greengrass and all that which goes with her, and settles in to listen, to take notes, and to learn all he can. Knowledge is power, after all, and with the weeks, months, and years ahead of them, he'll need every scrap of it he can get.

-!- -#-

Fyne Alley is a discreet, converted laneway off Diagon, with a series of boutiques and cafes that cater to the wealthy and the wealthier of Britain's magical community. It's quiet, absent of the street vendors that habitually crowd Diagon and Knockturn, but at the main entry point, a floo roars to life, and in short order, it spits out Lily, Harry, Liam, and Hermione.

Absently, Lily disperses the soot accumulated on herself and the teenagers, casts her gaze over the lane, and sets off at a brisk walk to reach their destination.

It's a nice day, sunny and clear in London, and Harry briefly regrets that they're not taking their time. He usually hates visiting Fyne Alley, forced to interact with the pretentious purebloods who usually frequent the lane, but outside of his sojourns to Qiang Sensei's dojo and his father's workshop, Harry's been mostly cooped up in Potter Manor, and the confinement - such as it is - has grown rather stifling. Lily Potter is a woman on a mission though, and given their grounding, Harry doesn't expect she'll let them linger for any longer than strictly necessary.

"I've made a booking at Twilfitt and Tattings," Lily informs them, "Given the growing you've done since the last Alliance dinner you attended, you'll each need whole new outfits. Hermione, that includes you, darling."

The last alliance dinner Harry and Liam had attended was before Hogwarts, when they'd been 10 years old. They'd been boring, tedious affairs, interspersed with the occasional argument between intoxicated Lords, Ladies, or Heirs, and Harry hasn't missed them.

Of course, Harry had started attending alliance meetings that summer, though those are less formal, more productive affairs than the dinners he remembers. But then, perhaps it's just that he's older now, with a greater understanding of the conversation, of the political and social connotations therein, but either way, it's not something he dwells on much.

"You really don't have to do that, Lady Potter," hermione demurs.

"I really do," Lily answers, "You're a ward of the House of Potter, and it's my and James' responsibility to ensure you dress the part."

"Only one of us has to be measured, right?" Liam asks before Hermione can protest further. He gestures between himself and Harry, expression hopeful, "I mean, we're identical. I can show Hermione around Fyne Alley, instead?"

Lily rolls her eyes, and replies blandly, "Nice try, Liam. You're all being fitted."

Liam slumps, dejected, and Harry laughs at his brother's disappointment. In turn, Liam pulls a face, but he grins and shrugs unapologetically a moment later, and banter good-naturedly the rest of the way to Twilfitt and Tattings.

The tailor's shop is a small, quiet store, without any pre-made clothing in sight. Instead, the front room is part sitting area, part fitting space, with an enormous clothing catalogue dominating a low table in the midst of the leather sofas. A thin, aged wizard stands behind a counter near the doors, and Lily approaches him confidently, undeterred by his haughty, rather unapproachable demeanour.

Liam glances at Harry, and queries, "Do you want to go first?"

Harry grunts, unenthusiastic, but acquiesces with a short nod. "Might as well."

Before he can get fitted though, his mother spends a good half hour discussing with Mr Tatting what would look best on Liam, Harry, and Hermione, deciding on colour schemes and everything else, and the minutes drag by. Liam fidgets restlessly, Harry daydreams, Hermione people watches from the front window, and Harry's almost relieved when his mother's increasingly lively discussion with Mr Tatting draws to a close.

"Are you ready?" Lily asks.

Harry considers the reasons for their presence there - dinner with Lord and Lady Greengrass and their family, the on-going negotiations for a betrothal contract no one really wants, the tedium that is acquiring new robes - and smiles mirthlessly. "As I'll ever be."

And as Harry steps onto the pedestal, as Mr Tatting sets to work acquiring his measurements, Harry wonders if anyone can ever be truly ready for an arranged marriage with a person they hardly know.

-!- -#-

**Author's Note:** Happy Birthday to me. Be kind. The HP fandom makes me so anxious these days. Lot's of trolls, y'see? Anyway, I'm supposed to be writing an essay, listening to a lecture, and doing some readings for a tutorial in the morning (studying online is a challenge, it turns out) but I'm not doing any of those things.

Rebel, that's me.

Take care of yourselves. It's a crazy world we're living in. Until next time, -t.

ps. Where is everyone? Not just readers/reviewers, but writers, too? Is no one else stuck at home for the foreseeable future?


	7. Chapter 7

**The Boy Who Lived**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

**Chapter Seven:**

"Is everything all right, Harry?"

Harry glances up from his Arithmency journal, chagrined. He's supposed to be working on the summer project Professor Vector had assigned everyone in the Arithmency class Harry and Su share, but he's distracted by thoughts of dinner on Wednesday night, by the prospect of an unanticipated, unhappy future with Daphne Greengrass, and his tutor's well-articulated explanations have gone in one ear and out the other.

"Sorry, Su. I'm fine. Just a lot on my mind."

"I gathered," Su answers wryly, "Did you want to talk about it?"

"Thanks, but I don't think I can. I'm sorry to waste your time."

"We all have bad days," she shrugs, "You took a lot of notes though, so I don't think it's a complete wash. You'll just have to let me know on Thursday if you have any questions. How's your Ancient Runes project coming along?"

"It's coming along a lot better than Arithmency," Harry replies, and neither of them are surprised by the fact. Ancient Runes is one of his favourite subjects, is a field he wants to pursue beyond NEWT level, but he can't say the same for Arithmency. Su, however, is the complete opposite. Arithmency comes naturally to her where Ancient Runes is a challenge, and as such, they make ideal study partners. "How is yours?"

Su pulls a face. "I'm really struggling with it, actually, so I'm thinking I might switch alphabets. I figure I might have a better affinity with Archaic Chinese. Thoughts?"

"I don't know. It's possible, I suppose. Maybe you should write to Professor Babbling; See what she thinks?"

Su, who doesn't relish the thought of contacting a teacher during their holiday despite Professor Babbling's assurance their questions are welcome, is noncommittal. "Maybe."

In silence, they pack up their study materials, and at the other end of the table, Liam and Hermione follow suit. They're in the break room of Sifu Qiang's dojo, and they've spent the last two hours working on their summer assignments. It's become something of a routine in the last couple of weeks, and Harry's grasp on Applied Arithmency has improved exponentially. He's still yet to develop a (theoretical) spell, as Professor Vector had assigned them for the Summer, but he's far more comfortable with the concept than he had been at the start of the holidays, and he has Su to thank for it.

"I'm sorry I haven't been much help," he says.

"It's not your fault," Su assures, "I just haven't resonated with Classic Greek. I should have taken Professor Babbling's warnings more seriously."

"No use beating yourself up about it now. Are you joining us in class today?"

Su grimaces. "Unfortunately not. My brother got in an argument with a couple of the students from the DMLE yesterday, so he's not allowed to work the counter anymore."

"Which means you have to instead," Harry surmises, and Su nods her confirmation, expression resigned. "At least you don't have to carve runes into blocks of wood for hours on end?"

"This is true," Sue concurs, "I don't know how you do it."

Harry's smile is rueful. "Neither do I, sometimes."

They walk as they talk, and meet Liam and Hermione by the break room door. Su excuses herself to the front desk, Hermione follows, and Liam and Harry wordlessly make their way to the change rooms.

"Are you all right?"

In truth, Harry's not all right in the slightest, but he has no interest in talking about it with anyone; Least of all the twin brother who already has enough to worry about without adding Harry's issues to his plate, as well. Besides, in the face of Voldemort, Death Eaters, and a Ministry of Magic determined to bury its proverbial head in the proverbial sand, is a betrothal contract really worth losing sleep over?

Harry's been trying to convince himself since Sunday that it's not, but thus far, he's not been successful. Instead, he reminds himself of the exit clauses he'd insisted upon, and mostly, it helps.

"I'm fine," Harry repeats crisply. He's lost track of how often he's been asked about his wellbeing throughout the afternoon, and he silently apologises for all of the times he's asked Liam the very same thing. He'll never hover again - It's rather tiresome.

"Why don't I believe you?"

Harry's resulting glare is deadpan, but as they exit the change rooms and enter Sifu Qiang's training room proper, he doesn't get a chance to answer.

"Shoes off," Sifu Qiang instructs them. It's a familiar directive. "And bring your wands. Today, I will start teaching you to combine magic and physical combat."

Harry and Liam glance at each other, bemused. It's nearly the end of July - they'll be back at Hogwarts in five weeks - and it seems a strange time to introduce a concept they'll likely struggle with. Neither Harry nor Liam question their teacher, however, and neither do they dawdle. They've a lesson to start, and Qiang Sensei doesn't care for people who waste his time.

"Something tells me this will hurt," Liam says fatalistically. Harry grimaces his agreement, but nonetheless, they step onto the sparring mats, bow, and approach their waiting teacher.

"It will," Sifu Qiang confirms. As they proceed with the bows that will start their lesson, and the usual round of warmups that follow, Harry acknowledges to himself that he's not looking forward to it. He knows better than to complain, however.

-!- -#-

By the time Harry and Liam shuffle wearily out of the changing rooms, James has arrived. He's entertaining Hermione and Su with a story from his time as a Gringotts Curse Breaker, and the two witches are enthralled by the telling.

Harry and Liam wait for him to draw the story to a close - they've heard it before, and don't particularly feel the need to do so again - and then confirm with Su their plans to meet up again for another study session.

"Ready to go?" James asks.

"Yes," Harry nods, "have a good night, Su."

"You too," Su replies.

The three Potters and one Granger leave the dojo, and begin the walk to Holly Cottage in the fading light over Edinburgh. Hermione peppers James with questions about his career as a Hit-Wizard during the war, as a Journeyman Curse-Breaker and Enchanter in the years afterwards, about his time as an active member of the Ministry of Magic's Wizengamot. Harry and Liam trudge mindlessly behind them, but because of their houseguest's interrogation of James, it isn't until they're in the front parlour of Holly Cottage that they learn they're not heading directly to Potter Manor.

"Where are we going?" Harry asks. There's a moment of unadulterated panic wherein he's utterly certain he's about to meet with the House of Greengrass earlier than anticipated, but reason sets in quickly. Their parents would at least expect them to freshen up and dress the part, but the unpleasant spike of adrenaline leaves Harry anxious and shakier than he'd care to admit.

"There's an Order meeting tonight," James explains, and Harry frowns, perturbed. He'd been aware, abstractly, that his parents had been attending meetings when Harry and Liam had been attending classes with Sifu Qiang, and he'd grown familiar with the routine. He'd also grown familiar with the fact that none of them - Harry, Liam, Hermione - were required to visit the Order of the Phoenix Headquarters alongside James and Lily, and as such, the change in routine leaves him flatfooted.

"Why are we going?" Harry asks, "Has something happened?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Harry. Since we have no idea what's going on, though, Lily and I would prefer if you three stay close by - just in case."

Unable to argue with logic like that, Harry accepts the folded piece of parchment James offers him, and reads the secret written within. Liam reads it next, followed by Hermione, before the parchment is burned down to ashes in the fireplace.

"Fidelius Charm," Liam observes, and frowns dubiously, "Really? They honestly trust it after last time?"

James smile is mirthless. "A number of us shared our reservations, but they were dismissed."

"Of course they were," Harry mutters cynically.

"Anyway, what's the floo address?" Liam changes the subject. Liam and Harry have witnessed it enough to know better than to let their father (or mother) get caught up in the memories of what they'd lost to Peter Pettigrew's betrayal.

"The address is 'Black Townhouse'," James answers, "The password is 'Snickers'."

Without any further questions, Liam takes the offered floo powder, and takes the network to Sirius' childhood home. Hermione follows suit, Harry a moment later, and he exits into a dimly lit, crowded kitchen. Liam and Hermione stand beside Lily, under the scrutiny of the gathered members of the Order of the Phoenix, and Harry joins them, awkward as the attention falls on him.

"Is your dad behind you?" Lily asks.

"He should be," Harry replies, I imagine he's locking the place up."

Indeed, James arrives a few moments later, clears himself of any accumulated soot, and approaches Lily and the three teens in a few quick, loping steps. Remus and Sirius join them too, and a parade of Order of the Phoenix members pass by to introduce themselves to Hermione, Harry, and Liam - mostly Liam, whose fame precedes him - and Harry's just about done with this nonsense.

What do you think of the place?" Sirius asks. He'd noticed Harry's irritation.

"I haven't seen much, but it's… It's something."

"That's one way of putting it," Sirius acknowledges with a brief, sharp laugh. There's nothing mirthful about it. "After my mother died - may she rot in hell - I should have done something with it, but I didn't want to step foot inside it for a second, never mind long enough to figure out what, so it's just been gathering dust since then. In hindsight, I wish I'd burned it to the ground."

"The Order won't need it forever," Harry reasons, "You can always get rid of it later."

Sirius nods his concession. "That's true."

Harry's attention is diverted by the appearance of Bill Weasley. He's accompanied by both of his parents, but he makes a beeline for the Potters, a bright smile on his face.

Bill is older than Harry remembers, his hair grown long, and one of his ears pierced with a small gold, fanged earring. He's dressed in non-magical casual - jeans, a plain V-neck shirt, boots and a leather jacket - and there's a confidence about him that Harry doesn't recognise.

Something that comes with age, or a Mastery of Ancient Runes, or both.

Harry doesn't waste time wondering about it, anyway.

"Bill!" Liam greets him delightedly. He clobbers the eldest Weasley in a hug that the redhead wholeheartedly returns. "I didn't know you were back in England. When did you arrive?"

"The beginning of the month," Bill answers. He tugs Harry into a hug with little effort, and Harry returns it without complaint, "I'd have stopped by, but when I haven't been at work, or sorting out the wards on the Burrow, I've been here, clearing the place out of all its curses and whatnot. I've hardly had time to breathe, never mind catch up with anyone, so it's good to see you. Gods, you two have gotten tall!"

The last time Bill had seen them, Harry and Liam had been a few weeks shy of their 11th birthday. They were weeks away from their First Year at Hogwarts, and Bill had just completed an Ancient Runes apprenticeship with their dad. He'd also just signed on to complete his journeyman qualifications with Gringotts, and a lot had changed since then, for all three of them.

"And you must be Hermione," Bill addresses the girl in question, "It's nice to meet you. My brothers and sister speak very highly of you."

"I find that hard to believe, the amount of times I argue with Ron and the twins."

"What can I say?" Bill shrugs, "We were raised to respect strong-willed women."

Hermione blushes to the roots of her hair and flounders for something to say, and Liam smiles fondly at the sight. Harry doesn't roll his eyes, instead casts his gaze over the room and takes stock of the figures therein, but he only returns his attention to the conversation when Liam moves the subject away from Hermione.

"Have you got any cool stories to tell? Dad's just about exhausted his supply."

"I resent that," James interjects mildly. There's a fond smile on his face though, and it's abundantly obvious that he really, truly doesn't.

"Of course I've got stories," Bill confirms, "And the way your dad tells it, you two have some of your own to share, as well."

"Trade you?" Harry suggests.

"That sounds like a plan," Bill acquiesces. He glances to where the other members of the Order of the Phoenix have begun to congregate around a scarred, weathered dining table, "I'll write, sort something out. I think you lot will have to head upstairs though. No students allowed in meetings."

"So we've heard," Liam intones dully. He's still not over the ruling, or his parents' agreement with it, and he has no qualms about making his displeasure known.

"Cheer up," Bill says, unfazed. Harry wouldn't be surprised to learn he's been subject to similar complaints from his own siblings. Even then, there's something implacable about Bill, and Harry can't imagine he's easily bothered by much. "Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny are upstairs.

_That_ gets Liam and Hermione moving. They're eager to see Ron, though Harry can't say he shares the sentiment. He's rather decent friends with Fred and George though, more so since he'd entered into a business partnership with them, and Harry moves to search for the pair without complaint.

"Be careful," Sirius warns them before they exit the basement, "The place hasn't been completely cleared, so be on your guard."

"We will," Liam replies. He's already got one foot out the basement door, weary of the scrutiny from the other adults in the room, and looking forward to seeing his friends besides, "Have fun."

"We'll try," Lily replies glibly.

And before anything more can be said, the teenagers retreat upstairs. The kitchen door clicks shut behind them, the locks engage, and the three are left to their own devices in a house that has seen far better days.

"Where to, do you think?" Liam asks.

"I'm going upstairs," Harry replies, "I figure Fred and George will try get as much distance between themselves and the adults as possible."

"Sounds likely," Liam concedes. "Want to take the lead?"

Harry's responding glare is deadpan, but he doesn't refuse the offer, such as it is. He doesn't trust Hermione to keep her head if they're beset upon by something, and he'd rather not give Liam the opportunity to employ his hero complex.

With that in mind, he treads carefully along the main hallway, floorboards darkly polished and covered by a faded green runner that has worn thin with age, until he comes across a staircase at the end of the hall. With Liam and Hermione behind him, he traverses the staircase quickly, carefully avoids glancing at the mounted house elf heads to his left, and sighs a breath of relief when the first bedroom they encounter is occupied by the four Weasleys they'd been searching for.

As creepy as Sirius' childhood home is, Harry hadn't been looking forward to searching the rest of the place for his gregarious business partners.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Fred greets them.

"Mates," Harry returns. He acknowledges Ron and Ginny with a nod, distant but polite, and makes himself comfortable beside George. Near the doorway, Ron, Ginny, Liam, and Hermione are engrossed in their reunion, and Harry tries not to hover. "How are you sods? Staying out of trouble?"

"Never," George replies,goodnatured, "And you?"

Harry wryly considers the grounding he and Liam have just received, and answers, "Hardly."

They chat then, about their respective holidays, about the Weasleys' recent relocation to Grimmauld Place, about Bill's return to England, and the progression of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. They talk about the Order of the Phoenix, too - inevitable, really, given their location - and Harry learns that the twins are chomping at the bit to be involved, that they've developed a product to glean information from the meetings, that the organisation's main objective, at present, is to protect something, somewhere, without attracting any unwanted attention. There are other missions, too, of course - James Potter has certainly confirmed as much - but the youngest Weasleys aren't aware of or interested in a lot of the details, and Harry doesn't bother enlightening them.

"Have you heard anything about Voldemort or the Death Eaters?"

"Not really," Fred replies. He barely winces at the name, and Harry considers it progress, "They seem to be laying low for now."

"Makes me a bit nervous, too be honest," George opines, "At least if they're in the open, we know what they're doing, you know?"

Harry nods his acknowledgement. He can't deny that the suspense has been something of a strain, but recently, he's had other things to occupy his attention. Not completely, of course - the threat of Voldemort and his Death Eaters is never far from Harry's mind - but enough that he hasn't spent as much of his time wondering (and dreading) where Voldemort would strike, not to mention _when_ he would do so.

Harry has no memories of the war that had dominated his parents' youth, and only the fragments of a memory of Samhain, 1981. As soon as he and Liam were old enough to understand the significance, however, their parents had not sugarcoated the reality of Voldemort's first reign of terror, the magnitude of lives lost, families destroyed, atrocities committed. They hadn't idealised their participation, hadn't turned the war and their actions therein into some grande, glorious adventure, had instead turned October 31st into a memorial for the fallen, and Harry has never forgotten their recollections, their grief, their regret and shame and tears.

As such, he knows that this time around will be just as terrible as the stories - if not more so - and so Harry relishes in the fragile peace, and dreads the day it dies.

Admittedly, there's a part of him that thirsts for action, for revenge, for blood. Voldemort had taken a lot from his family, had harmed his brother in more ways than Harry is probably even aware of, and the ache for retribution runs deep. More than that, though, is the fear of losing - his life, his family, everything - and the thought of taking his loved ones - leaving for greener pastures - is one Harry has considered often.

He'll never admit that, though, and neither would he ever act on it. His family has lost too much to Voldemort to let him chase them out of their homeland, and they're too stubborn - or too proud, rather - besides. Moreover, it would seem a lot like letting Voldemort win, and Harry isn't sure he could live with himself if he let that happen. Not without a fight, anyway.


End file.
